


Cuddles

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: big bang Strutting and Fretting 'vers [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cuddles, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 05:31:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8610625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Set after my big bang fic 'Strutting and Fretting', writting for canadian garrison who wanted cuddles and fluff. You find out what happens to the other a little bit, but it's really just Porthos and Aramis.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CanadianGarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianGarrison/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Strutting and Fretting](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8603461) by [R00bs_Teacup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup). 



Airports on a Sunday at five o’clock are a nightmare. Or perhaps it’s a particular nightmare, location: airport. Whichever it is, Porthos’s heart is beating wildly. Thud-thud-thudding against his chest like it’s trying to escape. He only finished work half an hour ago, rehearsals running to seven days a week because, despite Friday being opening, Keaton still hasn’t got to a place Porthos is happy with. It’s his first time putting on a friend’s play, and he wants it to get good reviews, and Keaton is going to be a huge part of that. Porthos wishes he spoke Arabic, or Urdu, Keaton’s first languages. Instead he’s stuck trying to explain concepts in words that don’t convey enough. Keaton speaks fluent English, but misses some of the nuances. Porthos tried French, today, but that hadn’t been much better, and Porthos’s French is terrible. Athos is back in London, tomorrow, he can come and speak Arabic to Keaton. Maybe Sylvie will want to come see what he’s done to her play in her three-week absence. 

 

“Are you waiting for me, or just here to do this deep-thinking?”

 

Porthos turns, face splitting, flinging himself into Aramis’s arms without taking him in properly. Aramis catches him, laughing, but Porthos pulls away at once, getting a look at him, then embraces him. He’s tanned, hair shorter, muscle heavy on him. Gone is the lithe, wispy look. He now looks like a tank. Porthos doesn’t really care, there’s still that smile, the bright eyes, and the overwhelming happiness to see Porthos. Porthos squeezes and Aramis’s feet come off the ground, head tipping against Porthos’s shoulder, laughter huffing against his neck. 

 

“Argh!” Porthos says, giving him an excited shake. “You fucker!”

 

“Good to see you, too, Porthos. You saw me a week ago,” Aramis says. “Ridiculous man.”

 

“It was at least a month,” Porthos says. 

 

“It was a week. Six days, in fact.”

 

So it was six days, and Aramis had more or less looked like this then. But… 

 

“You were out of context,” Porthos grumbles, setting him back on the ground. 

 

As soon as Aramis steps back, though, and Porthos gets a look at him, it’s too much and Porthos has to embrace him again, glee making him bounce. Aramis laughs and laughs, wrapping his arms around Porthos’s shoulders, leaning into him. Porthos sighs, the familiar weight and warmth of Aramis settling him all of a sudden, relaxing him. His heart slows, and he can feel it matching up to Aramis’s, Aramis’s breathing, the pulse in his wrist against Porthos’s neck. 

 

“I’ve missed you,” Porthos says. “It’s much harder to get out of this binder without you doing your magic thing to get it off, and I’m always so sweaty and stuck in it after a day at the theatre.”

 

“Yes! Tell me about Sylvie’s play, the reason you were not able to spend all your waking hours either on Skype or coming with me to film?” Aramis says, extricating himself from Porthos long enough to grab his case and link their arms. 

 

“You were only gone three weeks,” Porthos says, setting off for the car. “And it’s only television. When you get in, like, The Lord of the Rings or something, then I’ll come along.”

 

Aramis shoves and Porthos groans, laughing, and embraces him again, lifting him off the ground into his arms and swinging him around and around until he’s dizzy and stumbling, Aramis’s case flying off in one direction, his shoe in another. 

 

“Porthos!” 

 

“Why aren’t your shoes tied on?” Porthos asks, peering over Aramis’s shoulder at his shoe. 

 

Aramis has to hop over to get it, and then retrieve his case. He walks ahead of Porthos in defence, but it’s no defence really. He’s right there, his arse and shoulders tempting, and his hair and his voice. Porthos catches him and lifts him again, laughing. Aramis clings to his case and, when Porthos lets him go, walks behind. Porthos walks disconsolately to the taxi rank, and droops into one, giving his address. Aramis slides in after him, vibrating with suppressed amusement. Porthos wraps himself around Aramis and nuzzles into his neck, squeezing. 

 

“He was gone for ages,” Porthos tells the driver, catching her looking at them. She grins. 

 

“I know the feeling, my girlfriend’s in California visiting family. Four weeks,” she says. 

 

“Four!” Porthos exclaims, dismayed. “California! This one was in Prague, and only for three weeks. He’s gonna be on TV.”

 

“Oh yeah?” she says. 

 

“A miserable miniseries about miserable stuff,” Porthos says. “He’s in that BBC three thing, too. The gay one based on Dorian Gray, all modern like.”

 

“I’ve seen that. It’s got no lesbians in it,” she says. 

 

“We just got finished filming series two, you should watch. Sybil’s bi,” Aramis says. “I’m not supposed to say, but I’ve been telling everyone and talking about it in interviews, because it’ll get people watching.”

 

“Yeah, you keep getting told off, and when I go in to see you at the BBC no one’ll give me cake anymore. They think it’ll just encourage you,” Porthos says, letting Aramis go. 

 

Their driver promises to watch series two, and Porthos settles against Aramis, head on his shoulder. Seven days of rehearsals is full-on, even at his usual pace of things. Plus, bellowing and running around makes him breathe hard, and standing waiting in the airport with his heart going like that made him breathe hard, and missing Aramis and Aramis being here has him all in knots. In short, his chest hurts, tight around his ribs, thick inside pressing outwards. 

 

“Bit longer, darling,” Aramis murmurs. “You good for a bit longer?”

 

Porthos hums, drifting, happy against Aramis. Aramis’s arm around him. When they get home he’ll give Aramis proper cuddles, but for now this is nice. It’s nearly an hour to get to Elephant and Castle, but Porthos is glad he got the taxi and didn’t take the car. He hates driving in London traffic. Everyone in their right mind hates driving in London traffic. Athos, because he’s not in his right mind, finds it relaxing, somehow. He says it’s because he’s got lots to focus on and it’s like a puzzle. Porthos thinks it’s because he’s a Very Odd Person. 

 

“I have gossip,” Porthos says, covering a yawn and fumbling his keys. 

 

“Oh good! I have none, this was a really boring week. Tell me tell me?”

 

“Sylvie’s gone and started dating Constance. Sort of. Athos is a bit baffled, mostly because he’s okay with it, and he’s been Skyping me a lot. Apparently he came around to the idea of her loving more than one person because of what’s her name. What is her name? That woman you once dated for an hour, then she hit you with a book and kissed Athos?”

 

“Ninon, and that’s not at all what happened, but go on.”

 

“Ninon is on Facebook telling everyone she’s ace, and when Athos told d’Artagnan this, d’Artagnan said he’s ace, too. He’s actually, apparently, demi, but he said it was simpler to tell Athos ace because Athos was confused about what any of it meant. _I_ pointed out about him having Constance every which-way, which is when he said he was demi.”

 

“Everyone talks to you.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, pleased with that. He kicks off his shoes, finally having got into the house, and heads for the kitchen to put the kettle on for tea. “So, d’Art was telling Athos about it all, and he was talking about it as lots of different ways to love people, and Athos apparently had an epiphany and realised he loves lots of people and has lots of commitments and just because they’re not romantic doesn’t mean Sylvie’s shouldn’t be. Or something, I’m not sure, he then rambled for a really long time about being stuck in Scotland and wanting to have a fling with… what’s his name, the guy Athos is doing that for.”

 

“Scottish Indie Bloke? Dunno his name.”

 

“Never mind. That one, anyway. Athos was talking about relationships and commitments, and thinking about Sylvie and him and letting it go as a brief passing fancy, then wondering what it’d be like to pursue it. You know what Athos is like, he gets little crushes.”

 

“Any more gossip?” Aramis asks. 

 

“No,” Porthos says. “Kettle’s boiled, that’s it, time’s up.”

 

He makes them a pot and carries it to the living-room, and situates himself on the sofa. Aramis comes in a few moments later, in sweats and a t-shirt to match Porthos. He tugs Porthos’s shirt off and magics his binder off, and Porthos slumps, breathing in relief. Aramis has brought their Harry Potter mugs, too. They pour themselves tea, then fit themselves together, Aramis using Porthos half as a cushion, Porthos with his arms full of Aramis. They settle in for the foreseeable future.


End file.
